


and we will not fear what hands like ours can do

by trell (qunlat)



Category: One Piece
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Gen, Steven Universe - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-30 20:13:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3950167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qunlat/pseuds/trell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are a conversation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and we will not fear what hands like ours can do

It’ll be fine, he tells you—don’t worry!—nothing scary about it at all; and in the end you’re pulled along with him, pulled along just like always, all your plans folding in the face of his cheerful resolve.

(And maybe it’s not so much his resolve as it is that you _trust_ him, when it comes down to it: believe in him deep in your bones, trust in him before anything else. You try not to think about that, and it’s easy enough, with his hand gripping yours, with his voice so clear and ringing and close.)

He pulls you away from the heart of the party—both your crews round a bonfire, your ships moored nearby, ale and laughter both plenty—leads you stumbling down the beach, into cool darkness with the shadows gone blue. Here the sound of the waves swallows the distant sound of pirates in celebration; here there’s just him and just you, your heart beating too fast and too hard in your chest.

He says, “Don’t be afraid,” and he squeezes your hand, warm reassurance. 

You want to tell him you aren’t. You want to open your mouth and say that you’re fearless, you’re ready, without hesitation; only it’s too great a lie, a leaden weight in your stomach, how could you bear the thought of marring him with you.

He interrupts before you can untangle the feeling enough to find words. “We don’t have to,” he says, and the tightness that’s found its way into your breast eases a little, “but I think we’d regret not trying it more.”

Standing there, him all moonlit edges before you, certain your heart must be beating loud enough for him to hear, you press down your fear and you swallow your demons. You say, so quietly you can hardly hear your own voice: “Yes. Yes, I’ll try.”

You can hear his happy little laugh, breathed out almost against your collarbone, and it’s like something shifts, then, settles like puzzle pieces fitting together. He takes your other hand and he knits your fingers together, lifts them palm to palm, and leads.

Your first steps are a clumsy shuffle over the sand, trying to catch the rhythm and faltering. But after a false start you find yourself falling into step, learning the pace: his pace, now yours, easier with each motion. 

You’re almost too taken in by the ease of it to notice, when it happens; notice it only as the change is already passing, so caught up are you in the movement. There’s the fading flash of the fusion shimmering away down the tips of your fingers, your heart beating steadily for two; and when you take your first breath together it comes out even, everything as it should be.

And it’s only seconds later that the realization hits you, bowls you over, overwhelms you just like a wave rolling in from the ocean. Because each breath you take is yours and his in equal measure; because there’s a familiar jagged scar on your cheekbone and you adore it, know just how it highlights your (his?) smile; because there’s pale white splotches covering your dark skin and you love them, too (you’ve always hated them, hated their reminder) for being part of you. 

Because suddenly all your love for him must be love for _you_ , and what it feels like is nothing you could have ever dreamed. 

“Oh,” you say, and “ _oh_ ,” and your voice isn’t his and isn’t yours, is everything like your voices brought together. 

It’s your mouth that forms the words, “I told you,” your chest that shakes with easy laughter; you that answers back, “I didn’t know,” breathy and astonished. You feel light—like you’re floating—like everything that holds you down has suddenly been lifted, let you go. 

It’s breathtaking. It makes you want to laugh and shout and fight, makes you want to run until the exertion buzzes satisfyingly under your skin, makes you want _everything_ , all this world and more.

You find yourself saying the words without thinking, testing them on your tongue: “I’m going to be the pirate king,” and it feels right, because of course it does; for who could it be except him and who could it be except for you, when this is both of you?

There’s a laugh bubbling out of your chest and you think that must be him, amused at this product of both of you (or maybe just at _you_ ). You don’t have it in you to be anything like self-conscious, not then, not when the blood sings through your veins and it’s so much easier to be, to stand on the beach with all your doubts replaced by his self-assurance.

Still, the obvious problem presents itself. “We—I—can’t stay this way, you know,” and almost immediately you’re answering your own admonition, “I know.”

What you say next is all him: “I just wanted you to know.” Know what he feels for you, you realize, what you can be; know what it’s like to breathe without the miasma of self-loathing that follows you together with your ghosts, clinging to every action. You're hardly surprised that he knew.

He’s always been perceptive, empathic, and just now that’s part of you, more than enough to tell you how happy he is to share this with you. There’s a kind of glee in you that’s all his, like watching a gift received with absolute indulgence.

It is a gift, and so: you bring a hand to your heart and you murmur, “Thank you,” know you can be confident in his knowing exactly how much this means to you. 

It’s you that smiles, falls back on the sand and throws your arms wide. And you don’t need to say _you’re welcome_ , don't need to say anything at all; for all of you is conversation, and all your empty spaces have been made whole.


End file.
